


Shackles and Silk

by Izzy_Grinch



Series: Trespassing Boundaries [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: (sort of), Age Difference, Arno's like a half-wild dog that was beaten constantly but de Sade is patient enough, Developing Relationship, Flirting, Friends With Benefits, Living Together, Love/Hate, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Secret Relationship, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Sleepy Cuddles, although they are not really friends, and that benefit turns into feelings later on, annoyed Arno, caring de Sade, de Sade tries courting but in his own blatant manner, hand tying is mentioned, he sends Arno stupid poetry and puts flowers everywhere, well i mean they tried to okay??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 06:16:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: The marquis entwines his ropes around him, and the very moment Arno finally figures how to cut them off, he only lets them tighten even more.





	Shackles and Silk

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Кандалы и шёлк](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484056) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch). 

> It is important to emphasize that in the original version of this story Arno uses a formal "you" every time he addresses de Sade, due to their age and social status difference, and Arno's personal wish to be as cold and indifferent with the marquis as possible (yeah, well, the last one– he kinda fails it).

The world had thrust us from its heart,

And God from out his care;

And the iron gin that waits for sin,

Had caught us in its snare.

_“The Ballad of Reading Gaol”, O. Wilde_

Arno hears the leisurely rustle of the heels against the carpet runner coming closer, and closer, just a moment before they get into the room. He’s on his own territory and on his own terms, but he’s unarmed, and his suit is thrown onto an armchair, and his fingers, pressed to the table, turn white having nothing to clench on. So, he attacks first, snapping at the unsaid greeting − of such kind which the marquis would find the most indecent; gritting his teeth, Arno orders him to leave a letter somewhere around and get out, and grows cold when de Sade asks with a surprise as genuine as teasing:

“A letter? Oh...” he approaches, and Arno fixes his eyes on a random line of the documents scattered in front of him, as if the paper with faded inks can fence him from someone else’s desires. “I didn’t know you were expecting any letters from me, dear Arno. Well, now I must keep it in mind; do you prefer love poetry of Ronsard, or maybe−” he pauses, enjoying the moment, “−the lewd lines of le Petite?”

Arno rears. A smile is gathering in the corners of the marquis’ eyes and on his lips.

“Although, if you are interested in knowing what the streets of Paris whisper about these days, feel free to ask, for I am more than willing to lend you my... help in the name of your noble deeds,” he gestures widely at the room and bows a little, and it is impossible to say where exactly his reverence turns into mockery.

Arno says dryly:

“Your help costs me a great deal.”

“Oh, Arno...” the marquis puts his hand over his heart and shakes his head, closing in on Arno, “I am grieved to hear that.”

Arno warily follows him with his eyes until de Sade’s out of sight, and his shoulders lift and tense reflexively, as if ready to endure some beating. De Sade is behind his back, unseen, unheard, but Arno feels the oppressing warmth, the fragrance of lavender, heavy as a punch in the gut, the obscure danger − and a wet exhale, with that place on his skin which is exposed by his slipped collar. De Sade doesn’t even touch him, he just moves Arno’s hair away from behind his neck to his front, and his soft voice is only a bit louder than Arno’s blood thumping in his ears:

“You can take me with all your seething youthful rage...” Arno clenches his jaw tightly. “...or maybe I better take you myself?” and unclenches it as de Sade presses his lips, his teeth, his tongue right under Arno’s earlobe, then lower, and lower − lingering every time until it pulls and hurts indistinctly.

The marquis’ hands slide unto Arno’s waist, beneath his loose shirt, and for a moment Arno allows it to happen, but in the next one the marquis bends down on the table and Arno tosses his emerald coat under their feet.

They never talk about this. The marquis maybe does − with someone else, or in his lecherous drafts, but nor with Arno. His behavior is cavalier, he comes when he wishes to, always knowing exactly the proper time to catch Arno at the cafe; and it’s like a hook to his stomach − the chilling sensation of countless eyes following his every step, and in his head there is a constant thought of beggars, initiated into the secrets they are not supposed to. It seems now even the skies can stain him. Arno demands:

“Call off your rats. They have enough people to keep their eyes on.”

De Sade laughs at this.

“I’m afraid, it lies far beyond my powers, dear Arno, the King’s title has spoiled me pink.”

After that the marquis disappears for a long while, and when madame Gouze hands Arno an envelope, left there while he was away, Arno feels like the elegant initials, encrypting the name, burn on his skin, on his face − everywhere, brighter on those parts seen to people around. He looks back at the madame, with a hunted and guilty expression, and although she is back to her papers, when he gets to his room upstairs, unseals the letter and reads it, he’s overwhelmed as if there’re curtains around him about to rise and reveal him to the _Theatre_’s audience.

“From now on use the garden stairs,” Arno orders sullenly, and the marquis asks, showing his canines:

“Aah, so you received my little message? And how did you like its frivolous lines?”

Arno lours at him, watching his steps along the shelves, his fingertips dancing along the frayed covers.

“Disgusting. I burned it.”

De Sade reaches up to take a book from the farthest row.

“And here, I’ve imagined the mind of a man who has known the killing of a human being, cannot be abashed by anything at all...” he glances at Arno peacefully over his shoulder and says only: “I’ve been mistaken,” and Arno forcedly averts his eyes. De Sade continues, with a great relish thumbing through the pages: “However, disgust is the most honest of feelings, devoid of those illusions which surround fascination so frequently. Disgust arouses curiosity. You read it to the last word anyway, didn’t you?”

In the rippled reflection on the garden doors, flooded with night, the marquis finds his eyes again, and Arno has nowhere to hide anymore. De Sade puts the book on the round table in front of him.

“Your modest library is not that modest after all.”

_The Decameron_, Arno reads on the cover of such color which his clothes sometimes are soaked with after another nasty fight. He throws up his chin stubbornly and stands up.

“The library isn’t of my possession. Nothing here... is mine entirely. And don’t you try−” he outpaces the mouth, rounding up into a mistrustful _‘oh?’_, “−to convert me into your own faith.”

“Fortunately,” the marquis purrs, sliding his hands on Arno’s shoulders, “I prefer the pleasures of not so dubious kind as faith...”

De Sade is noisy, and unbearable, and he doesn’t hide behind any excuses, while Arno makes excuses to himself every goddamn second of his life, as well as to those who’ve left him long ago. In the mornings the marquis is the first one to wake up, even before the servants; Arno doesn’t even feel de Sade climbing over him. Squinting sleepily, Arno gloomily unties a long ribbon from his ankle, while de Sade adjusts his wig in a tiny hand mirror.

“You sleep so tight, dear Arno, that if I ever had a wild idea of murdering you, it would be ridiculously boring to perform.”

Arno demonstratively crumples the silk and throws it into the burnt out chimney, but the marquis doesn’t seem to be disappointed even in the slightest, and Arno stays silent in his helpless anger, without knowing what to say or do to wound de Sade in return. There is no end to those foolish ribbons. Arno takes them off his neck, and his wrists, and untwines them out of his hair as soon as he finally notices silk in his locks, and then he watches how the thin silvery strip flows through his fingers, purple as his bruises left after the missed blows, hasty roof leaps − and hungry lingering kisses.

The marquis whispers, tightening his knots on Arno, he whispers, leaning close to his clenched lips, that no life is long enough to try everything he wants to do with him, but Arno doesn’t have a life, for it has been offered to those in need, and those who will never live again, and those who rejected him. De Sade moves as if in trance, up and down on Arno’s hips, harshly, then stops to let another peak calm a little, and Arno, exhausted and almost cut by the stretching, razor-sharp fabric and wooden headboards, struggles to break free until one board falls out, yielding to his fingers, seizing it stiff, and that’s when de Sade startles, astonished, and releases himself on Arno’s heaving stomach.

In the brief hours of night oblivion the marquis is surprisingly restrained, and almost nothing gives out his presence; Arno keeps settling for sleep on the very edge of his bed, never looking back at him and leaving as much space between them as necessary to avoid any accidental contact. Arno’s tormented hands keep him restless. It’s still dark when he props himself on the elbows, annoyed with soreness, and freezes at the sight of the marquis sitting in silence and static stiffness.

“What is it?”

His question falls flat without response; Arno demands, irritated:

“De Sade?”

The marquis turns his head; Arno can’t distinguish his face in the darkness − only his white shoulders and occasional glimpses of his trinkets hanging low on his chest. Arno’s confused and reaches with a hand but stops half-way, when the marquis finally speaks up:

“I'm listening to a play rehearsal your actors are giving downstairs. It’s quite promising, I must admit.”

“...Are you out of your mind? Go to sleep.”

Arno reclines back on his pillow, trying not to pay attention to the movement behind him, when everything at once falls dead inside of him as the marquis’ fingers touch his skin. Arno is almost numb, like a sleep paralysis is clenching his heart. The marquis caresses his shoulder, his arm, slides his palm across Arno’s ribs, up his stomach and across his chest until his hand slips down on the other side, and Arno is trapped under it. For a long while Arno is lying still, staring into the shadows swirling in the room, then he puts the relaxed hand off of him, and lies there for as long as the morning haze needs to find its way through the crack between the curtains.

De Sade is too close, he’s too much; freedom and permissiveness make him tipsy, he is curious and greedy for what is forbidden, and if one door is closed from him, he’ll find another one as soon as he gets from an old noose into a new one. Arno is enraged when he has to march him out of the crowded hall on a theatrical evening, or when he orders him to keep away from sneaking around the cafe, or when he finds him in the tower on top of the _Theatre_, surrounded by the mute silhouettes in their niches, bloodily stained with the setting sun.

“This is not your house or your beggar kingdom! You abuse your position!” Arno advances, but the marquis doesn’t retreat, he only looks at Arno calmly, blankly even, with his half-lidded eyes and with no sight of any defiance. “You don’t give a damn about what people may think, because you don’t give a damn about people, and you keep using me!”

Something changes in his face − a shadow maybe or the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. De Sade lifts his chin.

“Don’t we use each other? Is it not the very essence of human communion?”

“_Communion_,” Arno repeats.

The marquis’ lips slowly stretch into a thoughtful smile. Arno evades his fluent touch, and the marquis passes him by with a chuckle; he scrutinizes the bottles on Arno’s table, before he picks an already opened one, shakes the petals of a long-dried bouquet from a pair of goblets, and makes himself comfortable on the sill of a window which Arno never closes. Then he invitingly pats the marble next to him. Arno watches the wine, sparkling in the evening light, and only then he approaches, tensed. They sit in silence; Arno − in a fading resentment and confusion; the Brotherhood has taught him to value time, when it took his every spare minute to itself; the marquis, it seems, has enough time for the entire city. Arno involuntarily checks his front pocket and quickly withdraws his fingers when de Sade asks:

“What kind of mystery is hidden in this old-fashioned watch with still hands?”

“How do you−” Arno gathers himself up, as if it can protect him from the ubiquitous hands; he feels as if he’s been robbed. “Damn it... _de Sade!_” the name goes out like a hiss through his teeth.

The marquis sighs.

“It was left in plain sight.”

“Which doesn’t mean− It’s not your business! Not yours, not anyone else’s!”

“However,” the marquis gestures with his goblet at the roofs of the _Theatre_ and distant stripes of streets, “it is only you and me in here.”

Arno stares at his own reflection in the wine, until it starts blurring in his eyes, and drinks it all up; de Sade pours him more. Arno takes the ill-fated watch out, snaps its cover off: the hands remain on their usual place, a quarter past one, not a minute later but not a minute earlier neither. Late. He was late, and he wasn’t where he had to be. He mutters under his nose “it’s father’s” and says how young he was and how stupid, how irresponsible, how everything that is being entrusted to him, turns out as a misfortune and death to everyone around. He washes his words down with wine, and it seems bitter. He doesn’t expect sympathy from de Sade, he doesn’t expect anything from de Sade; the marquis says, shaking his head a little:

“Well, Versailles has always seemed to be better for intrigues, not for children...”

Arno winces.

“What can you possibly know−”

“Me?” de Sade arks his brow derisively. “As a responsible bearer of my family’s name, I know enough, with the exception of, perhaps, the first−” he thinks for a moment, counting, “−some... years of life.... The particularity of my usual abodes doesn’t let me fully−”

Arno incredulously interrupts him:

“You− you have children?” the very thought of it is so ridiculous that he forgets even about the watch on the chilly marble.

The marquis grins at him cheerfully.

“I dare to assume that even a couple of centuries ago the plague epidemic put a lesser terror into the hearts of Parisians. Louis is a year older than you...” Arno feels his neck growing hot for some reason, the marquis continues with amusement: “Donatien is a masterful rider, and Madeline... ah, if only she was half as charming as you, dear Arno.”

De Sade laughs at Arno’s embarrassment, pours them the rest of the wine and brings another bottle from the table. Then − they talk. The subjects differ; de Sade can keep up with any of them, Arno doesn’t know much about literature, and tries to avoid everything concerning the Brotherhood, and he deeply regrets mentioning Napoleon, for the marquis breaks into a caustic monologue which leads them into the labyrinth of politics. They talk about those radical decrees of the Convent, about the recent murder of Marate − the marquis is shocked; about pathetic attempts of gendarmerie to do its job properly, about investigations Arno’s got involved into − “ah, if only all of them were like you, Arno”, the marquis says, narrowing his eyes slyly; they talk about their dead king, and Robespierre who left the _“Piques”_ for the Convent, and tailors − in the most serious tone possible de Sade asks Arno to take him to those who make his clothes, and wine which “leaves much to be desired”, and horses, and weapons, and the “outrageous” edits which the marquis was forced to make for his new play to be accepted by a local theater.

When it becomes unbearable to stay on the windowsill, they go inside to sit in front of the chimney, a bedcover casually spread under them. When the day starts breaking slightly, the chimney is dark, and the marquis stretches tiredly.

“Mm... how do you feel about a brief but extremely intense act on inhuman lust before I leave you? Ah, and we can _commune_ in the process, if you wish so.”

Arno snorts. De Sade looks at him expectantly, his brows raised, and then he takes him by the chin when Arno finally leans in. The marquis’ kisses are sweet of wines, his hands are quick, and he is pliant like a melted butter.

However, de Sade stays true to his habits: he is captivated by the revolutionary debates on the _Theatre_’s stage, and so he keeps attending them − on the most crowded evenings, and people recognize him, and the gossips are sticky like silt which the river flow brings into the catacombs under the cafe, and Arno dives deep into his hood when madame Gouze calls him. The marquis just shrugs, unconcerned.

“Reputation is not worth much when the city is ruled by the crowd and the lanterns are covered with hangmen.”

He is also strangely attracted to the tower, and Arno finds him there again and again, reading books. The marquis says that he likes to see the roofs and Seine, and to be able to leave at any given moment, and Arno knows it has something to do with the Bastille and other places where de Sade was imprisoned, but Arno doesn’t know how many years the marquis has spent constrained by four walls, one of which − or maybe even all of them − was a lattice. Arno doesn’t say anything, he only asks de Sade not to touch the suits. De Sade bursts with laughter.

“Oh, so that’s what you imagine the horrible marquis entertains himself with in your absence?” Arno frowns with annoyance and irritation. “Covers himself with dusty robes of your honorable precursors? However, it is you who arranged himself a cabinet among the dead ones, Arno, not me,” he waves with a palm and, distracted, fingers the petals of fresh roses now blooming in the vase.

He is right, Arno thinks reluctantly; he never liked this room, it wasn’t his idea to make it like this, that’s how it was before, that’s how Bellec liked it and that’s how Arno’s left everything after Bellec’s death. The cafe is not his home, it is merely a refuge, and this fact makes it weird to find the marquis here every time Arno returns − lounging in the armchair or leaning on the terrace parapet and writing swiftly in his little notebook. One day they have a breakfast together. Arno barely eats, watching silently how a fruit knife tears into a crimson-red apple; de Sade meets his eyes and tells him that the section asked him to give a speech against those lawless arrests. “Listen!” de Sade says, and Arno − listens to him.

And it is even weirder when Arno doesn’t find him at all; he stumbles in from where the rain is storming, he struggles to catch his breath, and he calls: “De Sade...” The water is pouring down from him and lashing through the garden doors, roughly whipping Arno’s back; he pushes the resisting doors until they are closed, then he calls again. There is no response, and so Arno plods across his room, faltering over the carpet and somehow evading table and rails fencing his bed; in the darkness he searches for a pillar to lean on because he knows if he sits down even for a second, he’s unlikely to stand up again. Arno takes off his damp coat. He crumples a neckerchief and presses it tightly to his side, the cloth once white, turned gray of water and soaking dark now, and in the morning he indifferently watches a couple of servants scraping blood from where he stood the night before, and unhanging the curtains which he grasped to hold himself.

Arno sleeps for a day, not so much exhausted by the wound − it’s not the worst one, the bullets were pulled out fast enough, − or by the ache in his beaten body, or by the necessity to choke on laudanum bitterness, as exhausted in general. The intendant kindly brings him newspapers and a single letter, and Arno forgets himself for a moment and snatches the envelope to open it hastily and shove back a second later: the Brotherhood skimpily expresses its gratitude and expects Arno to be back to his duties as soon as possible.

On the next day Arno wakes up, forces himself to eat at least something, and starts to dress up. His movements are strained by a dislocated shoulder, and he has no idea how to manage it with a shirt which has suddenly turned so complicated as if it’s the trickiest German door lock, and he struggles until a disappointed sigh distracts him from that humiliating fuss. The marquis − the marquis approaches, shaking his head reprovingly, opens the wardrobe and after inspecting it for a brief moment takes out an unbuttoned shirt. Arno hisses:

“I can do it myself.”

“Oh, I have no doubts about it; however I am deeply wounded by that lifeless routine you’re doing it with. Stand up, Arno.”

The marquis fastens up his cuffs and with a tiny grin tucks the shirt flaps into Arno’s trousers; pulls his hair from under the collar, gathers together, combing with fingers, and ties up with a dark ribbon. He traces a scarlet neckerchief around his throat and gently tugs him closer, and curls a corner of his lips into a smile when Arno takes a step towards him. Arno isn’t burdened with their silence, but he wants to ask where the marquis has been these days − and he doesn’t, he only lowers his chin and watches how the marquis’ palms smoothen the vest on his chest and rearrange the waves of his bouffant bow. De Sade hands him a heavy leather coat, for the autumn rains are here to stay; he thoroughly threads every strap through its clasp, fingers moving knowingly, used to unbuckle it all to strip him naked; then he passes a soft sash round Arno’s waist to put a weapon belt on it, and Arno winces a little when the marquis tightens it. At last, he picks up and examines the hidden blade, and finally helps to adjust it, and Arno turns his wrist so that the blade would aim away.

“And that ugly hood of yours, under which you love to hide all the time, dear Arno.”

Now, from the shadows surrounding him, Arno sees only the tip of the long nose and the fading hint of a smile. Arno hunches, and the face is gone completely; he lowers his head even more, until his forehead meets the shoulder and green cloth embroidered with golden threads. The marquis’ back is straight, his hands, always moving, always busy with their theatricality, now freeze mid-air, then they slowly fall and close on Arno. His embrace is lingering and tight.

Arno blames himself for that weakness, for the marquis being aware of it sitting deep inside of him, but he doesn’t shun those hands anymore, entwining him in their bed, and de Sade pours him with caresses, and to these caresses Arno surrenders himself almost desperately. He fists the sheets under him, his stomach falls in, his voice breaks with chocking breaths, and Arno can’t see anything but his own messy hair. With an effort de Sade pulls Arno’s convulsively clenched knees apart and lazily stretches between them, pressing with his entire body, silk and beadings. The marquis leans in to his lips, while Arno struggles to avoid him.

“It’s disgusting.”

“It’s you,” the marquis simply says, and his hair too falls on Arno’s face as he conquers his mouth, deeply and shamelessly. Arno sulks; de Sade chuckles, then suddenly passes his fingers over the trace of their kiss and exclaims softly: “Ah, stained you a little...” and laughs when Arno pushes him off back to the mattress.

Arno knows that sometimes the marquis still wakes up in the middle of a night. This time he’s awaken by a chill draft; and when he sits up there’s a figure in a pale frame of a wide opened balcony door. The marquis is completely naked.

“Have you lost your mind?!” he shuts the doors and draws the curtains from de Sade’s grip, closing them back. “Someone could see you, for God’s sake!”

De Sade sighs impassively.

“Isn’t it the principal joy of human freedom?”

Arno takes him by the elbow to keep from doing more insanities or running out into the early frosts and withered garden, where the marquis’ gaze is directed now, with a vague yearning. And then Arno − understands.

“De Sade. You will never return there. You are under protection of the Brotherhood,” he lets go of his arm. “Under my protection.”

De Sade’s eyes are green, and his lashes are faded and thin. Arno lowers his own ones, when the marquis gently touches the scar on his cheek and says:

“Oh, my dear, dear Arno...”

**Author's Note:**

> *Historically, de Sade had blue eyes, close to violet even, like lavender. But I kept his in-game portrait, and so the lavender is in his perfume now.
> 
> *Ronsard and le Petit are the French poets of 16th and 17th centuries.
> 
> **A poem which Arno would like (_Arno: “No, I would not!”_) to receive from de Sade:**  
_**Pierre de Ronsard “As One Sees on its Branch | Comme on Voit sur la Branche”**_  

> 
> As one sees on its branch, in May, the rose  
In its bright youth and new astonishment,  
Making the heavens jealous of its tint  
When, touched with dew, in the first lights it glows,  
Then, in its petal, grace and love repose,  
Filling the gardens and the trees with scent;  
But, scourged by the sun’s heat, by the rain bent,  
Drooping, it dies: petal from petal blows.
> 
> So your bright youth, which earth and heavens adore,  
Lies now in ashes, for no love can strive  
Against the murdering Fate. For obsequy,  
Receive my tears, this vase of milk I pour,  
This basket full of flowers, so that alive  
And dead, your body shall all roses be.
> 
> **A poem Arno’s got instead:**  
**_Claude Le Petit “To the Curious Reader | Au Lecteur Curieux”_**
> 
> Last night, after a debauch in the Faubourg Saint-Germain,  
Between midnight and one, in a surly mood,  
And groping my way alone from street to street  
In search of a brothel where I could rest till morning.
> 
> Half on foot, half on my hands and knees,  
And as filthy up to my arse as a ploughshare,  
I saw up ahead beside the wall, like a whore,  
A great spectre, as thin as a rake, in action.
> 
> If anyone was ever surprised, it was me.  
You could have finished me off with a feather.  
I never was so taken aback in my life.
> 
> You’ll want to know what I’m talking about, I’m sure.  
But, Reader…oh, why not? It happens, as you’ll find out.  
It was—God forgive me—a devil fucking you.


End file.
